


somebody who's seen the light

by Kaylin881



Series: Silmarillion Unrequited Soulmarks [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Gen, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Unhappy Ending, Unrequited Soulmarks, You Have Been Warned, can be read as shippy, canon-typical sadness, this is not a canon divergence au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2019-09-27 07:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17157701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaylin881/pseuds/Kaylin881
Summary: Nolofinwë becomes aware of Fëanáro as his soulmate before he knows him as his brother.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consumptive_sphinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/gifts).



> This fic uses my Unrequited Soulmarks concept, in which people are born with the name of their soulmate written somewhere on their body. Soulmates in this context can be romantic or platonic and are simply defined as the person who will be the most important or have the biggest impact in your life. 
> 
> This fic can be read as shippy if you choose, but is not explicitly written as such and will not feature a romantic relationship between the two main characters.

When Nolofinwë first becomes aware of Curufinwë Fëanáro, it’s not as his half-brother—who has, after all, been absent from Tirion almost Nolofinwë’s entire life—but in the form of a name, written on his collarbone in perfect, elegant tengwar.

The tengwar are still relatively new when he first learns to read the name, still replacing Rúmil’s sarati as the predominant writing system of Quenya. Most of the people Nolofinwë knows are not yet practised enough to write the way this name is written: so beautifully, so naturally, that each shape seems to be in its Platonic form, as if no deviation or alteration could improve on their current perfection. He traces the swoops and curls of the letters on his skin with reverent fingers, studying the placement of every dot and flourish until they burn themselves into his memory.

A year later, his father does a double-take at some of Nolofinwë’s schoolwork, then stares down at the page as though it might bite him.

“Did you write this?” he asks. By his tone, he’s almost afraid to find out.

Nolofinwë isn’t sure which answer is the right one, so he goes for the truth. “Yes.”

His father doesn’t say anything more, but wanders away looking troubled. Nolofinwë looks down at the page full of perfect, elegant tengwar and tries to spot his mistake. He doesn’t find anything.

***

Nolofinwë is twenty-nine when his half-brother finally returns to Tirion. Finwë pulls out all the stops to welcome his prodigal son, while Indis slinks around wearing an expression like a cat who found a mouse in her cream and making catty comments that are just this side of rude.

Curufinwë seems not to care about either of these reactions. He is cool towards their father and positively frosty to Indis. Nolofinwë he ignores entirely, to an extent that would be ridiculous if it wasn’t so utterly infuriating.

Finwë, of course, is distracted from noticing this by his new grandson, who turns out to be the entire reason Curufinwë is back in town in the first place. They are, it transpires, cordially invited to attend the baby’s naming ceremony. Well, invited, anyway.

It’s a public affair, in the central square in front of the palace, and what feels like half of Tirion packs itself into the courtyard to see the long-absent Prince Curufinwë name his baby son.

Nelyafinwë, he’s named. _Third Finwë_. As if Nolofinwë didn’t even exist.

It’s like a punch aimed directly into his gut. It’s the feeling of Curufinwë ignoring him ever since he arrived, but concentrated and refined so the full weight of it slams into him in the space of four syllables. He knows, rationally, that this isn’t a personal attack, or at least not a personal attack on _him_. He sees Indis looking white and furious as she stands next to her husband, but she can’t say anything with this many people watching.

The worst of it is that Finwë is delighted by the name, as he is by everything his oldest son does. He takes it as a compliment, a homage to his own well-established habit of adding his own name into the names of his children, and seems oblivious to the insult hidden inside the flattery like a thorn in a bowl of rose petals. Nolofinwë watches him scoop the newly-named Nelyafinwë into the air, both of them laughing, and feels ill.

It’s possible that Curufinwë is equally oblivious. But the naming fits far too well into a pattern Nolofinwë has already observed, and Nolofinwë might not have hit his growth spurt yet but just because he’s young doesn’t make him stupid. He can tell that his brother—half-brother—would prefer it if he didn’t exist.

His _soulmate_ would prefer it if he didn’t exist.

It occurs to Nolofinwë, for the first time, to wonder what name appears on Curufinwë’s skin. Not his, surely. Apart from the obvious truth that Curufinwë’s life does the _opposite_ of revolving around Nolofinwë, surely he would have said something by now if he knew they were soulmates. Finwë, then? Curufinwë’s wife Nerdanel? Or perhaps Míriel, since his fierce defence of his dead mother’s legacy is still famous decades later.

Or maybe, Nolofinwë thinks, watching crowds of well-wishers flock around Curufinwë like moths to a flame, this is a man who is not shaped by those around him, but instead forges his whole world into a more pleasing image. Maybe Nolofinwë has the fortune, or misfortune, to be bound to one of those rare souls whose skin bears no other name than their own.

***

Years go by. Nolofinwë is an adult now, with children of his own. They often play with their cousins—and cannot, in fact, be dissuaded from doing so. Nelyafinwë becomes Maitimo, a charming young man who goes by his mothername whenever he can, and most of his brothers follow suit.

Curufinwë, too, seems to prefer being called Fëanáro, now that they interact enough for Nolofinwë to notice the preference. Under pressure from their father to play nice, and dragged along by their children’s insistence on associating with each other, he eventually unbends enough that he will deign to speak to Nolofinwë, although never about matters of any importance.

It hurts, distantly, like a half-forgotten itch along his collarbone, that his soulmate does not confide in him, can barely tolerate his presence. But it’s more than he had before.

Fëanáro continues to create, to build, to design. His presence in Tirion invigorates it, like a hibernating bear awoken to new life by the return of the sun’s warmth. Under his influence, the linguistics guild grows from a small dusty department of the university to a lively community ringing with a new debate every week. Nerdanel’s sculptures begin to grace public and private gardens, university hallways and the foyers of private residences. Fëanáro starts receiving commissions to make jewellery for the ladies of Tirion, and his pieces inevitably become the sole topic of conversation at any party at which they are debuted.

Nolofinwë sits through meeting after meeting with his father, with the endless string of petty councils this city apparently needs to function, with ‘concerned’ members of the public. He writes legislation that gets torn to pieces in the debating chambers and put back together into something unrecognisable before being grudgingly voted through to be implemented weeks or months later.

His promises to himself that he is making a difference with his career in politics, that he is changing things for the better, seem more hollow to him than ever before.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That scene with the sword. You know the one.

Nolofinwë is worried about Fëanáro. 

This in itself is not unusual; Fëanáro is frequently worrying, even on one of his long excursions away from Tirion with his family, when nothing is heard from them for months at a time. More so, even, and in some ways, Nolofinwë prefers the times when the whole herd of them is underfoot in the city. At least then he knows where his brother is likely to be found and can brace for trouble as it comes.

These days, though, Nolofinwë finds himself wishing Fëanáro was anywhere but here—a horrible thing to wish about his soulmate. Formenos, a vacation in the far south, a trip to the edge of the world, he doesn’t care, but perhaps if the idiot would just leave for half a year or so then things would calm down a little. Because right now, Tirion is anything but calm. More and more people are carrying shields, most of them blazoned with house symbols that do nothing but stir up partisan rivalries and incite new divisions between former friends. 

It started with the Silmarils, he thinks. He knows that makes him sound like the jealous younger sibling, trying to tear down his older brother’s accomplishments, but it’s true that all of this—whatever this is—has been getting worse ever since Fëanáro made those jewels he guards so obsessively. They’ve made him paranoid, convinced that someone might steal them at any moment. Fëanáro’s growing mistrust spares only Finwë and his own children, and there’s a physical ache in Nolofinwë’s chest every time he sees the distrustful looks his soulmate sends his way. When he overhears the whispered speculation in the streets, the ache turns sharp and stabbing, making it harder to breathe. 

They whisper that there is strife between the sons of Finwë. That there are disputes over the succession—as if Nolofinwë would ever try to cut out his own soulmate from the kingship. As if he  _ could _ . 

Yes, Fëanáro would make a terrible king, far too absorbed in his own work and too distractible to have the patience for rulership. Yes, Nolofinwë has been doing much of the work of governance for decades, picking up the slack as his father— _ their _ father’s kingdom grows too vast for one man to rule alone. 

Yes, he will admit in the privacy of his own head, he might make a better king than Fëanáro, if only because he has taken the time to learn how. But how can he take away his brother’s position as their father’s heir, when Fëanáro already blames Nolofinwë and his other siblings for taking away their father’s love? He’s never said it straight to their faces, but only because he interacts with them as little as he can get away with. Fëanáro hardly needs  _ more _ incentive to hate them.  

So: Nolofinwë is worried. About his brother, who seems to descend deeper into paranoid isolation every time they see each other. About his people, who are being torn in two by insidious rumours. About his father, caught in the middle of it all and looking older by the minute. 

In the midst of all this turmoil, he hadn’t thought to worry for himself. 

When the undercurrents of tension finally break the surface, Nolofinwë is with his father. He’s trying, once more, to persuade Finwë to make a statement, to take control of the situation, to do  _ something _ other than sitting there and watching as their country falls apart. His father is being cautious and evasive, in the infuriating way he has of speaking much and saying little—which Maitimo seems to have inherited despite it completely skipping Fëanáro—and Nolofinwë is losing his patience. He knows he is. He knows his voice is raised too loud for discretion, knows he’s saying things he doesn’t really mean just to get a reaction,  _ any _ reaction other than inscrutable serenity and bland smiles. 

Nolofinwë is ranting, far wide of whatever point he originally hoped to make, and not paying all that much attention to the words. He’ll remember them later, though. The sentence will echo in his head as all mistakes do, reminding him of his utter stupidity.

“Two sons, at least, you still have to honour your words!” 

_ Two sons, at least.  _ Meaning Nolofinwë and his younger brother, because he has never claimed to understand Fëanáro’s mind. 

There’s a noise from the doorway, the scuff of someone abruptly halting their steps. They both turn—too late—to see the last person Nolofinwë wanted to overhear this conversation. 

Later, he’ll be tempted to blame it on Melkor manipulating events, but really, it’s just bad luck that Fëanáro walked in at precisely the right moment—or the wrong one—to hear him saying something even more ill-thought-out than the rest of the conversation. 

His brother is dressed for war, in a suit of finely engraved armour and a tall, plumed helm, and it takes Nolofinwë a long moment to recognise him. In that moment, while everyone else is still paralysed with uncertainty, Fëanáro crosses the room with long strides, coming to stand uncomfortably close. Nolofinwë takes a reflexive step back before he’s even consciously processed who it is, and then foolishly wishes he hadn’t. It’s the closest Fëanáro has willingly come to him since Irissë was born. And then he doesn’t have time to think about such things, because his soulmate is in his face and furious, the emotion lighting up Fëanáro’s whole body as though he’s on fire with it. 

“So,” he snarls. A fleck of spittle lands on Nolofinwë’s cheek. “It is as I guessed. My half-brother seeks to be before me in my father’s affections, as in all else.”  _ Half-brother _ is pronounced like the name of a fungus or a slime mould.

The room is deathly silent, and the scrape of Fëanáro’s sword leaving its scabbard—Nolofinwë hadn’t even noticed he was wearing it—sounds louder than it should. He’s not pointing the sword at anyone, yet—thank Eru for small mercies—but it catches the Treelight and seems to glow almost as bright as its wielder, who is still glaring at Nolofinwë with unrelenting hatred burning in his eyes.  

“Get thee gone,” he commands in a voice like the roar of a furnace, “and take thy due place.” And Nolofinwë knows, in that instant, that Fëanáro will kill him if he does not leave. He feels it like a bolt of lightning coursing through him, lighting up every nerve in his body. 

He bows to their father, hands folded in his sleeves to hide the way they’re shaking. Finwë looks helplessly from one of his sons to the other, opens his mouth as if to interject, but says nothing. Keeping silent himself to avoid provoking his brother further, Nolofinwë makes to leave, skirting around where Fëanáro stands and glares. 

He’s almost to the door, visible to the people passing in the square, when he feels movement at his back, and something cold and hard is pressed against the side of his neck. He turns slowly, some instinct telling him to keep his hands out to the sides and make no sudden movements. 

It’s Fëanáro, because of course it is, and the coldness is the sword he’s holding to Nolofinwë’s throat. He twists it a little so that the edge threatens to break skin; Nolofinwë goes still, barely daring to breathe.

“See, half-brother!” Fëanáro says, staring with fiery intensity at where the blade meets flesh. “This - ” he slides the point slowly down, catching on the collar of Nolofinwë’s robes “ - is sharper than your tongue. Try again to usurp my place and the love of my father,” he warns, “and maybe…” Cloth rips. Fëanáro’s words falter. The fire in his eyes flickers and cools, and he blinks in confusion at the rip he’s just made in Nolofinwë’s robe. 

Nolofinwë looks down, too, confused for a moment about what has caught his brother’s attention, and then he sees it too: the looping black lines and dots of tengwar, visible on newly-bared skin. Only part of the soulmark is exposed, but it’s enough to make out the name  _ Curufinwë _ , written in an elegant and distinctive hand. 

They’re standing at the edge of Tirion’s main square and must be attracting quite a crowd of onlookers: one of Finwë’s sons, holding another at sword-point. Nolofinwë can’t bring himself to care. His soulmate stands in front of him, open-mouthed, speechless, forgetting to blink. 

He could not have achieved more of a reaction, Nolofinwë thinks, if he had run Fëanáro through with his own sword. It’s not as satisfying as he’s always hoped. 


End file.
